


Don't Drink And Drive (A Computer)

by derryderrydown



Category: British Panel Show RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie learns that he shouldn't write Guardian columns while drunk. Or maybe he should...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Drink And Drive (A Computer)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is so very, very fictional.
> 
> 2) I couldn't have written this without Derek, who gave me answers whenever I complained that I didn't know what happened next, and also fixed Aisleyne's dialogue.
> 
> 3) Riona also provided vast amounts of cheerleading and beta services.

>   
> **Love is for idiots**  
> And they deserve every bit of pain it brings  
> 
> 
> There are far too many songs that make it seem like being in love is a wonderful thing. "Love lifts us up where we belong," the singers warble, with the kind of wide-eyed desperation normally found on the faces of those with a bad bout of diarrhoea and no toilet within sprinting distance. "I love you, and that's all I really know," they shriek, staring longingly at the heavens. Or Simon Cowell.
> 
> That's total bollocks. Being in love is horrific, an endless nightmare of waiting to have your heart and other squishy bits attacked with a cattleprod made of barbed wire. Even if it doesn't end with testicle-kicking agony, it ends with some kind of pain. Everything dies, and love is no lucky exception to the rule.
> 
> I'm speaking from experience, you understand. I have had girlfriends in the past, women who suffered from sufficient temporary insanity to willingly climb into a bed with me. I may have had to lie to them, but that's irrelevant right now. The point is that I have been in love with people who were in love with me.
> 
> Note the past tense.
> 
> It always ends, is what I'm getting at here. There's no such thing as happily ever after, no matter what the Disney Corporation might want to sell you.
> 
> But, hard as it might be to believe, there's something worse than being told by the woman you love that she still _likes_ you, it's just that you're not the centre of her world any more and she's found somebody who works in PR who she's sure you'll really like if you give him a chance.
> 
> Try being in love with somebody who's constantly polite to you.
> 
> They never say, "Okay, let's make passionate love until the building shakes and your neighbour calls the police because she's worried about the screams coming from your bedroom." They never even say, "It's a bit creepy the way you're always smiling at me. Especially when I'm in bed and you're staring in the window."
> 
> No, they just carry on being happily oblivious to the fact that you're sprawling, weeping, at their feet, begging for them to notice you. If they do happen to spot you lying there, they'll just say, "Oh, have you fallen over? Let me help you up."
> 
> After a while, you start to wonder if perhaps you're being too subtle about the whole thing. So, even though you're fairly confident you're being about as subtle as a shit-smeared elephant sitting on top of a fairy cake, you make it even more obvious.
> 
> What do they do? They talk about Norman Tebbit snogging Roy Hattersley.
> 
> What are you _saying_, you bastard? That the thought of snogging me turns you on as much as the thought of hot Tebbit on Hattersley action? That snogging me, a living gargoyle, is still pretty sexy?
> 
> I've got no fucking clue, so I'm giving up on all idea of subtlety.
> 
> David Mitchell, you fucker. I'm in love with you.

* * *

Charlie Brooker woke up with a pounding headache, a mouth that something had died in several weeks ago, and a vague feeling that he'd done something really stupid.

The last one wasn't unusual, so he concentrated on not throwing up for long enough to find painkillers and enough water to wash them down, then settled gingerly onto his sofa and waited for the world to stop heaving.

After a while, he got bored enough to turn on the telly. And it was Jeremy Kyle so he had as much chance of turning it off as he did of looking away from a car crash.

The problem was that the vague feeling of having done something stupid was growing stronger as the nausea receded.

Jeremy Kyle was replaced by Loose Women, and the sight of Katie Price on the screen gave him enough impetus to grope vaguely down the side of the sofa until he found his laptop. It took a little while longer to heave it onto his lap but he managed it.

The screen was too bright but the alternatives were standing up enough to put a DVD in or watching Katie Price - whose boobs were currently only a little smaller than her head - talk about whatever pile of crap she was selling, so he squinted at the glare until his eyes got acclimatised enough that each pixel wasn't stabbing his brain.

There were a lot of emails.

A _lot_.

He had a bad feeling about the whole thing as he opened up the first.

> `Charlie,
> 
> Bit of a departure. Sure you want to run this one?
> 
> Iestyn
> 
> `

Run this one _what?_

He opened the next email.

> `Charlie,
> 
> Answer your phone, you wazzock.
> 
> Iestyn
> 
> `

Come to think of it, he did have vague memories of something telephone-ish ringing.

> `Charlie,
> 
> I need a yes or no by 3.30. If you don't get back to me, I'm going to have to take it as a yes. Judging by the typos, I suspect you want it to be a no, but you haven't sent me anything else I can use. Get off your arse and *write* something.
> 
> Iestyn
> 
> `

Oh, this really wasn't good.

He'd _meant_ to write a column about the pointlessness of exercising in order to live longer but he couldn't remember actually doing it. He'd evidently sent something resembling a column to the Guardian but he had no idea just what the subject was.

And if _Iestyn_ thought it was bad then it was horrifically bad. Iestyn hadn't blinked at the rambling discussion of exactly what tortures should be visited upon Piers Morgan, while G2's editor had pulled it within three seconds of seeing it.

He glanced at the clock on the lower right-hand side of his screen. 3.45. So it was too late to pull whatever the horrifically bad thing was.

Reading on was strangely reminiscent of the Jeremy Kyle Show.

> `Charlie,
> 
> Seriously, mate, if you don't send me your real column, I'm going to *have* to run this one. And then you'll run off to Venezuela to escape the fallout and leave me with empty space to fill next week.
> 
> ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE.
> 
> Iestyn
> 
> `

Venezuela. That was a possibility. One that was becoming more tempting by the moment.

> `Charlie,
> 
> Okay, perhaps you do want to run it. Whether you do or not, too late. G2 is officially signed off and away for printing, and so is your column. Nothing I can do to change it now.
> 
> Good luck. On the bright side, he's not the kind to punch you in the face.
> 
> Iestyn
> 
> `

The last line wasn't actually reassuring. He felt less guilty about it when he insulted somebody who _would_ punch him in the face.

There were two options facing him. He could suck it up, be an adult and open his sent mail folder to find out exactly what was being printed under his name. Or - and this was the preferred option - he could have another bottle of wine and wait for it all to go away.

Unfortunately, the latter would involve going outside to buy more wine and just the thought of the mid-afternoon sunshine made his headache double in intensity.

He was going to have to be a brave little soldier, then.

Two seconds after reading the last line of the email he'd sent, he was on the phone to Iestyn, gibbering desperately for him to _pull the damn column_.

"I _can't,_" Iestyn explained for the thirtieth time, patience gradually eroding.

"I'll write something else. I can get it to you in five minutes."

"You can't type that fast. Besides, it's no good. G2's booked on the presses and there's nothing I can do to hold it back."

"How much would it cost?"

"Cost?"

"To pulp this G2 and print a new one."

Iestyn laughed. "More than you've got. More than you'll ever have."

Charlie groaned.

"Well, you never know," Iestyn said, sounding vaguely sympathetic. "Maybe he won't read it?"

Charlie let his silence speak for him on that one.

"Yeah, sorry. Look, I could add something to the online version? 'This week, Charlie wrote a column that he thought was obviously a joke and realised too late it wasn't.'"

"That might work," Charlie said. "I mean, I have a history of writing jokes that people don't get. Right?"

Iestyn, very politely, didn't say anything.

* * *

Normally, Charlie liked the time lapse between writing a column and it being printed. It gave him a bit of time to step back from it so the inevitable bile-filled comments didn't hit quite as hard.

This weekend, he just wanted it to be on the shelves so he could stop waiting.

And he wasn't tweeting about this one. No fucking chance.

* * *

It was stupidly early on Monday morning when his mobile started bleeping cheerily next to his head. He glanced blearily at the screen before answering. "Aisleyne?"

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Um." Well, there was a _lot_ wrong with him. The question was which flaw Aisleyne was talking about right that second.

"I read your column."

"Oh." _That_ flaw. "It was a joke. That didn't work."

"Bollocks it was."

"Um." He'd feel guilty about his lack of sparkling repartee but Aisleyne knew him well enough to know what to expect when calling at 9am.

"You quoted _Taylor Swift lyrics_, Charlie."

"I did?"

"You did."

"Oh."

"So, you're _actually_ in love with David Mitchell. And you thought this was the best way of telling him?"

"I don't know that I _thought_."

Aisleyne paused. "Were you pissed?"

"Um. Maybe. A little." Aisleyne didn't say anything. "I didn't _mean_ to be. I just had one glass of wine and then..." He gestured vaguely, then realised it was a bit pointless. Aisleyne seemed to get what he was saying, anyway.

"You're lucky, Charlie. Some MP got caught banging a rentboy on expenses. No one even noticed you flinging yourself out of the closet."

"It'd have to be a really fucking slow news day for them to be interested in that."

Aisleyne sighed. "And you're not getting out of this Zeppotron thing tonight."

Oh, yeah, the anniversary thing. "Do I have to go?"

"You're a director of the company, Charlie. You've got to make an appearance."

"I'm a _creative_ director. It doesn't count."

"Anyway," Aisleyne continued, and he could hear her smile, "I've got a new dress."

And that meant he'd lost.

* * *

The bash was at one of those brash, modern pubs that Charlie hated and Aisleyne loved. Not a place he'd have chosen, but, thankfully, planning parties wasn't part of his remit. Equally thankfully, this was just an internal company thing and not something that would attract paparazzi.

Except, apparently, 'internal' now included David Mitchell.

He nearly got back out the door before Aisleyne's weight on his arm could have enough effect to swing him round. "No running off," she said.

"I'm still hungover. And I wasn't expecting him to be here."

"So?"

"I need to work myself up to it. Prepare what I'm going to say."

"Prepare what you're going to say about what?" And David was right there, smiling as though he were completely oblivious to Charlie's glaring fuck-up. "Evening, by the way."

Aisleyne elbowed Charlie viciously and it was enough to make him blurt, "Evening." Rubbing his side, he added, "Didn't know you were going to be here."

"Neither did I," David said. "But I was talking to Katie -" production co-ordinator on _Would I Lie to You?_ "- and she invited me along. And I didn't feel like being middle-aged tonight. Well," he said, and lifted his pint of bitter, "it's less middle-aged than sitting at home with a pot of tea."

And maybe David was just going to ignore the whole thing. Pretend it hadn't happened. That would be a David-like way of dealing with it. As would making the effort to come to a party Charlie would definitely be at, to make it absolutely clear that he was ignoring the column and not Charlie himself.

Charlie could have kissed him.

If it weren't for the fact that it was that kind of thought that had created the whole problem.

"What're you drinking?" Aisleyne asked.

And Charlie was so relieved that he said, "Vodka and cranberry. Double," completely forgetting that booze had caused just as many problems as his lustful thoughts about David.

* * *

A couple of hours and quite a few vodkas later, he leaned close to David - purely so he could be heard over the music and not at all so he could smell David's shampoo and the washing powder on his shirt - and said, carefully, "I'm really, really sorry."

"That's nice," David said. "What for?"

"My column," Charlie said. "And I know you're pretending it never happened and I really appreciate that. But I had to let you know I'm sorry."

"Charlie," David said, "I haven't read your column yet."

Charlie blinked. "And nobody's mentioned it to you?"

David was looking puzzled. "Well, Katie said I should read it. And offered to email it to me, actually. But I haven't had a chance."

"Oh." Charlie said. He tried to think of something to say but his brain was frozen.

"Why?" David said, puzzlement gradually turning into suspicion.

"Probably best if you don't read it," Charlie said, and slunk off to find Aisleyne. Perhaps she could be persuaded to apply one of her stiletto heels to his temple.

A few minutes later, he caught sight of David over Aisleyne's shoulder, staring at his phone with the absorbed concentration of somebody browsing the web on a very small, very badly designed screen.

Stupid gadgets, Charlie thought. Stupid fucking _technology_. Once, today's Guardian would have been safely beyond reach by now and David would never have been able to find out what stupidities Charlie had drunkenly spewed onto the page. Now, his words were immortalised until the inevitable collapse of the internet under the relentless grind of capitalism and spam.

And, as he watched, David's eyes opened wide.

"Give me a cigarette," Charlie said.

"No," Aisleyne said. "If I have to put up with you quitting again, I'll kill you."

"I need it," Charlie said, and there must have been something in his voice because Aisleyne fished in her tiny bag and produced a battered packet of ten.

With a sigh, she handed it over. "I'm not talking to you for the two weeks it takes you to quit."

Charlie was gone before she'd finished speaking.

The pack had a disposable lighter tucked into it, next to the three remaining cigarettes, and Charlie was flooded with simultaneous self-disgust and relief as he lit one. There was a group of smokers clustered on one side of the door, sharing cheery smoker conversation in between lung-wrenching coughs, so he went to the other side and leaned against the wall.

He took another deep drag on the cigarette, welcoming the much-missed tingle of the nicotine, then nearly coughed his tar-ridden lungs up as David said, "Um, about the column."

"Didn't know you were there," Charlie eventually wheezed.

"Sorry," David said, and Charlie waved the apology away.

"The column was a bad joke," he said when he could speak properly. "You know me. Write it at the last minute and realise too late that I'm the only person who gets it."

"Right," David said. "Because I didn't mean that snogging you would be as disgusting as Tebbit snogging Hattersley. Well, it wouldn't be for me. Might be for you. But I was just trying to be funny."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Same here." Charlie dropped his hardly-burned cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out. "Just - got it a bit wrong."

"Right. Yes." David frowned absently at the remains of Charlie's cigarette, still smouldering enough to be visible.

"Can I get you a drink?" Charlie said, suddenly desperate for _something_ to say.

David glanced at his watch. "I should probably be getting home."

"Right." Charlie nodded until he realised he looked like the bloody car insurance dog. "Early start?"

"No, not really. Just prematurely middle-aged."

"Right." No, wrong. "Um. Thanks for coming."

"No, no. I enjoyed it. Er." And David held his hand out for Charlie to shake.

They might have shaken hands when they were first introduced but Charlie was pretty certain it had never happened since. But here they were, shaking hands.

"Charlie," Aisleyne said, popping her head out of the door. "You'd better not be planning an escape. This is your party, you know."

"David's just heading off," Charlie said, and realised he was still holding David's hand. He dropped it quickly.

"No, he's not," Aisleyne said, and put her arm round David's shoulder. "He's coming back inside and having another drink."

"Ah." David tried to take a step away but Aisleyne wasn't having it. "I really need to get going."

"No, you don't. Come on in here."

David cast a last, despairing look at Charlie before Aisleyne towed him back inside.

Charlie looked at the two remaining cigarettes and the nearly-whole cigarette by his foot. With a sigh, he lit the penultimate cigarette.

He managed to make two cigarettes last quarter of an hour, largely by dint of just holding them as they burned, rather than actually smoking them. Eventually, he'd run out of cigarettes to hold and he was getting odd looks from the people who were genuinely smoking, so he took a deep breath and headed back inside.

It took him a few moments to spot Aisleyne and David. For a brief, wonderful moment, he thought they'd both vanished. Possibly to have sex with each other, thus leaving him to feel virtuous about his fuck-up having got them together.

But, no, they were just standing in a corner. Well, David was standing in a corner, looking nervous, and Aisleyne was blocking his exit and talking loudly to him. Complete with vehemently waving arms.

He could make a break for it. While they were both distracted and not paying attention to him. It was a perfect opportunit-

David had seen him.

And, with the aid of David's pointing finger, Aisleyne had seen him, too.

He didn't need to be able to hear Aisleyne to know she was ordering David to stay put. And before he could run, she was standing next to him and had an uncomfortably firm grip on his arm.

"Come back here," she said. "I told him everything."

Which was the cue for Charlie to plant his feet and stay stubbornly in one spot, no matter how hard she dug her fingers into him. But then she gave him a swift prod to the back of the knee with the extremely pointy toe of her shoe and he was moving before he'd had time to think about it.

David looked like he would gladly cut his own wrists to get out of this. Charlie suspected his own face had a similar expression.

"You both fancy each other, okay?" Aisleyne said. "And I'm not letting you walk out the door until you do something about it." She glared from one to the other. "I will be _right over there_ and I'll be watching you. Now sort it out and stop making each other miserable.I am _watching_ you."

After she'd gone, Charlie cleared his throat. "Um, she didn't bully you into it, did she? She can be a bit forceful."

"Er. No. No real bullying." When Charlie managed to look at David, he was staring at Charlie's feet.

"But do you...?"

"Well. A bit." David coughed. "Quite a lot, actually. Er." And he sounded anxious as he added, "She was right about the column not being a joke, wasn't she?"

David's feet were suddenly very interesting. "Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn't have, you know..."

"Told the entire Guardian-reading population of the world."

"Well, probably should have told you first."

"Hmm," David said. After a long, long silence, he said, "So, this kissing thing."

"Yeah." Charlie started to lick his lips, realised halfway through that it was impossibly sleazy and stopped, leaving one half of his mouth uncomfortably dry in comparison to the other. "I mean, I can't _guarantee_ it'd be less disgusting than snogging Tebbit or Hattersley, but if you want to...?"

"Well, if _you_ want to..." And David _laughed_, so Charlie had to look up. "We're a bit useless at this, aren't we?"

Charlie couldn't help smiling. "A bit, yeah."

"So." David cleared his throat. "I can't believe I'm saying this but - your place or mine?" He paused. "My _god_, that was unbelievably cheesy."

"Which would you prefer?"

"I really don't mind."

"Well, neither do I."

"I think yours is closest."

"Does that mean we go to yours or mine?" Charlie asked.

"I don't actually know."

"Sod it," Charlie said, "let's go to mine."

"Okay."

Charlie looked at David. "Did we just make a decision?"

"Do you know, I think we did. It wasn't a very big decision, though."

Charlie shrugged. "It's a start. We can work on it."


End file.
